


And a Hive of Silvery Bees

by dogpoet



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Bees & Beekeeping, Episode Related, Hathaway's brain, M/M, Shaving, The Mind Has Mountains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogpoet/pseuds/dogpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lewis injures his arm, he needs a bit of help, and Hathaway goes above and beyond the call of duty as usual. Coda to The Mind Has Mountains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And a Hive of Silvery Bees

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by [riverlight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/riverlight/pseuds/riverlight) and [ComplicatedLight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight).

When Lewis walked into the office the morning after Bethan Vickery’s arrest, his arm in a sling, he looked a bit the worse for wear. His shirt was unevenly tucked, his tie crooked. He collapsed into his chair, visibly annoyed. 

From his desk, Hathaway said, “All right, sir?”

“Fine,” Lewis said, testy. “It’s this bloody arm. Have you ever tried getting dressed in the morning with just one arm? It took me ages.”

Don’t like to think about what might have happened if her aim had been better. Knife to his heart. Worse than a knife to mine. Don’t think about it. It didn’t happen.

At least he’s right-handed. Worse if he’d injured that arm. I like imagining him hopping round the flat, trying to get his trousers on. Arm in the sling holding down one end of his tie while he tries to do the knot. Surprised he didn’t ask me to come round to help him. He’s not shy about dressing in front of me. He’s done it since we met. Not self-conscious. I could never do the same.

Hathaway stood, pushing his chair back at the same time. “May I?” he asked, nearing Lewis’s desk.

“Ah. Thanks,” Lewis said, understanding. He stood also. “Not the usual bagman’s duties.” He lifted his chin to allow Hathaway better access to his tie.

Hathaway gently slid the tie loose, adjusted the length of each side, then deftly wound one end round the other to make the knot.

He’s been wearing the ties I got him for Christmas. Shades of purple. They go nicely with his eyes. His warmth. I can feel it through his clothes. Standing this close to him, hands on him. Or nearly so. Would he let me help him shave? I can see the spots he missed. What would he look like if he grew a beard? I’d be likely to develop a thing for them.

“How long did the doctor say?” Hathaway asked, gesturing to the sling as he stepped back from Lewis and his perfectly knotted tie.

“I heal more slowly in me old age, they tell me. But I should be able to get rid of this thing in a week. Then I’ll be able to tie me own ties.”

“I hope you won’t consider this an impropriety, but…” 

How to say it? It’s not like offering to bring him dinner. Do that nearly every night now. Does he know he’s being wooed? Wooed by someone who could never say what he feels. Could never call it wooing. Maybe he just thinks I’m lonely. He’s never said no to my company.

Make it sound professional. “As your sergeant, I feel it’s my duty to make certain you keep up your appearance, and you could do with a clean shave.”

For a moment, Lewis looked surprised, but then his face returned to neutral. His right hand came up to feel his face. “You’re probably right. Are you offering?”

“Of course.”

“All right.” Lewis nodded, returning to his chair.

As simple as that. I can feel the blood rushing to my face. He never mocks me when I lay myself open. Never. A thousand times he could have. His kindness. 

“Bright and early, mind, so we’re not late.”

Hathaway sat, smiling down at his desk. They were silent for a minute. Lewis’s computer made its starting-up sound.

“She could have done worse,” Lewis said.

He read my mind. Looking up, Hathaway said, “Bethan?”

“Yeah. Lucky I didn’t end up in hospital. Speaking of which, I should stop in this afternoon and see how Mrs Gansa is doing.”

Always checking on the people involved in our cases. Not in the job description. Just who he is. Will he check on me, too, after he retires? Where will I be? I’ve no idea what I’ll do without him. Wander like a lost soul. Nomad existence. Try to find God again. Nepal somewhere, maybe. Tibet. But then he couldn’t stop in.

Moving to Manchester would be a bit obvious. But I lack subtlety even here. Wouldn’t have been able to hide the triumph in my voice if I’d told him about Laura at dinner with that bloke. As it was, he noticed I was chipper next morning. Need to be more careful. I want him to be happy. If she makes him happy, so be it. I should get out of the way. Stop bringing him dinner. Stop offering to come over and help him shave. I’ll start tomorrow. New, restrained me.

*

Lewis left work early to visit the Radcliffe. Hathaway stayed later, texting Lewis at six to see if he wanted to have dinner. When Hathaway arrived at Lewis’s flat, Lewis had already had a pint or two.

“I just got home. Went for a pint with Laura,” Lewis explained before Hathaway could ask.

“You’ve made up, then?” Hathaway carried the bag of groceries over to the worktop.

Can’t let him see my expression. Did he want to have dinner with her, but he didn’t know what to tell me? My worst nightmare, having him say, _Sorry, James, I can’t. I’m going to dinner with Laura._ But he’d tell me. Unlike him to be indirect about something like that.

Lewis shut the door and came to join Hathaway in the kitchen. “You don’t have to cook for me. I’m capable of putting a ready meal in the microwave, you know. I’ve had plenty of practice.”

“I hope I didn’t interrupt dinner plans.”

Petulant. Must stop.

“What? You mean with Laura? Nah.” Close, Lewis peered into the carrier bag. “What’ve you got? Mm, courgettes. Peppers. Pasta. Look at you.”

“The sauce is going to be from a jar, I’m afraid.”

“I can stir. I’ve got one good arm.” Lewis held it up to demonstrate.

Together, they set about preparing dinner, a slightly less well-oiled machine than usual since Lewis couldn’t chop the veg. But he got the saucepan out, filled it with water, let Hathaway set it on the hob, then rinsed the courgettes and peppers before laying them beside the chopping board for Hathaway.

He seems thoughtful. Wonder what he said to Laura. They’re good together. The objective part of me knows it. We’re good together, too, but only like this. Can’t see him wanting more. Platonic love, that’s what it is. At least on his side.

“Laura says Mrs Gansa’s unlikely to recover,” Lewis said, breaking the silence.

Hathaway looked up, waiting for Lewis to say more.

“Alex Gansa was there. He was reading to her. The Jumblies.”

 _They sailed to the Western Sea, they did, to a land all covered with trees, and they bought an owl, and a useful cart, and a pound of rice, and a cranberry tart, and a hive of silvery bees._ Always loved the bees. I don’t know why. Something domestic about them. And peaceful. But why silvery?

“I don’t think he wants to leave her side. He was…” Lewis shook his head. “I didn’t think much of him at first, but he seems quite devoted to her.”

Love in so many forms. Adam’s adolescent stalking, Bethan’s deluded obsession, Gansa’s devotion. Surprising, that last. Any more surprising than my own devotion? Sergeant to Inspector. Friend to friend. More.

“It must have been strange. She first knew him as her therapist,” Hathaway said.

“I can’t imagine dating my therapist.” Lewis made a face. 

Hathaway wielded the knife carefully, chopping peppers. “I had one once. A therapist, I mean. When I was thirteen. It was a disaster.”

The mountains in my mind. The valleys and the cliffs, more like. The deep crevasses and precipices. Sitting there in the beige office on the beige sofa. What could I say? Sometimes there’s no point in talking about things. At least not with someone who doesn’t give a toss about you, nor you about them.

“No fault of yours,” Lewis said, then fell silent.

He doesn’t say stupid things just to say something. And he’s not nosy unless it’s for a case. It’s what I like most about him. Hope he’ll stay. Get an allotment. I’ll help him plant things. Do they let you have bee hives at allotments? Sherlock Holmes kept bees when he retired. And Yeats. The bee-loud glade. Except the speaker in that poem lived alone. He didn’t have his former sergeant to help him. Prefer the Jumblies. They weren’t lonely. I’d follow him anywhere if he asked me. Take care of him when he’s old. 

When dinner was ready, Hathaway suggested the dining table might be easier than the sofa, which was where they usually ate, side by side and watching telly. He made Lewis sit while he brought them their plates. He watched Lewis swallow his pain pills with a glass of water.

“They make me sleepy,” Lewis complained. 

“Good. Maybe I’ll tuck you in before I go.”

“Like hell you will.” Lewis awkwardly ate with his right hand.

“If I’d known you were this grouchy, sir, I would have gone with DI Grainger.”

“If you’d done that, where would I be now?”

“Where would _I_ be?” God only knows. I shudder to think.

“You’d be an inspector, I reckon,” Lewis said seriously. “If you had a mind to be. Sometimes I think I’ve held you back. Selfish of me.”

“No,” Hathaway said. “Not selfish.”

I never know what to say to him when these things come up. If I speak, I’ll say too much. Better to keep quiet. He’s looking at me. Sometimes I think he sees right into my mind. 

“It is what it is, I suppose. Our lives — we don’t have much control over them in some ways, do we? Maybe not even in the ways other people think we do.”

He understands. I could never be an inspector. Couldn’t face the job at all without him. Coming home to an empty flat every night, dead bodies on my mind. Practically invited myself to sleep on his sofa after the Zelinsky case. If I could just hear him breathing all night.

“Will you move north, do you think?” Hathaway asked.

Lewis stared at his pasta for a few seconds before looking at Hathaway. “No idea. What do you think I should do?”

“Are you seeking spiritual guidance?”

“Give over. I’m asking you a serious question, man!”

How many nights have I thought about it? Stupid fantasies. The thrill I get from imagining us going out for a pint. Imagining putting on a pair of wellies to go and help him weed his allotment. We’ve had thousands of conversations in my head. Most people would think I’m pathetic. But not if they knew him.

“I want you not to be lonely,” Hathaway said after a long pause.

Lewis smiled. “I’ll do me best.”

*

“Do you need help changing the bandage?” Hathaway asked after they’d done the dinner dishes and cleaned the worktop.

Does he notice how I delay leaving whenever I’m over? He never seems impatient, like he wants me to go. I’d do anything to stay, even clean bloody wounds.

“Aye, I suppose I do. I hate looking at the thing. You’d think I’d be used to it with all the poor sods we deal with in our work, but it’s different when it’s on your own body.”

They walked together to the bathroom. Lewis sat on the toilet lid and let Hathaway remove the sling. 

“The bandages are in the cupboard. And there’s some cream.” Lewis began unbuttoning his shirt with his right hand.

Hathaway opened the cupboard and picked up the tube of antibiotic cream. He turned back around and watched Lewis work at the buttons. Beneath Lewis’s shirt, there was no vest, only bare skin.

I wonder if he’d stop undressing in front of me if he knew the thoughts I’ve had. I love seeing him like this. What’s under his suits. The pattern of hair on his chest, over the roundness of his belly. I want to touch. Lean in and kiss him.

“Getting _out_ of me clothes is easy,” Lewis commented. “It’s getting into them that’s the trouble.” He shrugged easily out of the shirt and folded it over the edge of the basin. He peered at the bandage on his arm.

With care, Hathaway peeled back the tape holding the bandage in place. The skin around the stitches was red but clean. Hathaway dabbed some cream onto the wound with a cotton bud, then taped a new bandage on.

Remember this: these slight touches, my skin brushing his. This light. These smells — antibiotic cream and the strange smell of tape. Something comforting about it. Or maybe it’s just him. He always feels so warm. I can be a foot away and sense it coming off him. Wish this could go on forever, this excuse to touch him. 

“Shall I help you into your jim-jams?” Hathaway asked, deliberately nettling.

Lewis gave him a look. “I’ve reached me limit of being coddled, thanks. But I won’t say no to help in the morning. I don’t want to come to work looking like I slept in a bus station.” He stood, still bare-chested.

Hathaway tore his gaze away and put the first aid tape back in the cupboard.

“I know you’ve got your band tomorrow, and don’t you dare miss it to come fuss over me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir. And I don’t fuss.”

“Off with you,” Lewis said, feigning impatience, putting a hand on Hathaway’s back to guide him out of the room.

*

Next morning, Lewis answered the door in his dressing gown, hair still wet from washing. He stood out of sight as he let Hathaway in. “Half of me wanted to be respectable. The other half thought it would be wiser to wait for you,” he said. “There’s no use getting shaving foam on my shirt. I’d only to have to put on a fresh one.”

Hathaway bowed his head, trying to hide his smile, and came in quickly. Lewis shut the door, and Hathaway followed him to the bathroom, slipping out of his jacket as he walked. He hung it on the hook on the back of the bathroom door.

“I don’t know if anyone’s ever given me a shave before. Maybe Val.” 

He’s said that more than once to me. _No one’s done this since Val. Haven’t had company like this since Val._ I fill a place in his life, even if it’s not the place I’d choose if I could. Need to learn to be satisfied with it instead of spending all night thinking about this morning turning into snogging on his sofa and being late for work. Instead of saying stupid things like, “If you go, I go.” He’ll start to wonder.

The bathroom was still steamy from the shower, the mirror fogged up, though it looked as though Lewis had rubbed a circle in it a short while ago. 

I nearly caught him in the shower. The smell of his soap and shampoo still in the air. Breathe. Remember the feel of this. Think about it later. Not now.

“My bandage got wet. If you don’t mind, I should probably have a new one.” Grimacing, he shrugged out of the bathrobe. Underneath it, he wore only boxers.

Hathaway changed the bandage, then turned his attention to Lewis’s shaving kit. Lewis had an old-fashioned shaving mug and brush. His shaving foam was the kind in a pot. 

Posh. Probably a gift from Lyn. He once told me he was a soap-and-water man. Likely to buy any old foam from Boots if left to his own devices.

The foam smelled nice, faintly spicy. Hathaway wetted the brush, put a dab of foam on it, worked it into a lather in the mug, then turned to Lewis, who stood just beside him.

“Should I sit down again?”

“I think not. I’m too tall.”

“All right.”

They stood face to face, only a few inches between them. 

I can’t do this. It’s too hard not to kiss him. His mouth. The lines around his eyes. The furrows in his brow so close I could count every one. Bit of pink in his cheeks. The barely-there eyebrows. His dark lashes and the blue of his eyes. Window to soul, etc. But it’s true. 

He can probably see my heart pounding. Or hear it.

Carefully, Hathaway dabbed foam onto Lewis’s face. First the left side and then the right. His upper lip.

“I’ll remember you this way forever, sir.”

“Just don’t put me on your Facebook like this.”

Hathaway smiled. He replaced the brush in its cup, and picked up the razor. Beginning with the spot just below Lewis’s left sideburn, he began to shave off the uneven growth, using tiny strokes to give some bits a second or third go. 

They were both silent as Hathaway worked, silent as he touched Lewis’s face with hesitant fingers, manipulating the skin so as not to nick it.

This feels so intimate. People let strangers do it. Barbers. Still some awkwardness, I imagine, but nothing compared to this. It feels as though I’m lying to him. He’s trusting me, letting me touch him, when he has no idea the things I think, what I’d do if he let me. Maybe it’s only me who feels strange about it. To him, it’s just his sergeant lending a hand.

Ever so gently, Hathaway shaved Lewis’s upper lip and his chin, listening to the whispery scrape of the razor.

Growth of hair like tree rings. A record. How much in a lifetime? Day by day, week by week. I read somewhere that it keeps growing after we die. More than a lifetime. Of course, it doesn’t start growing on the face until later. Wonder how old he was. Would he show me a picture if I asked him?

“Don’t cut my jugular,” Lewis said. “It’d be a real mess for Laura.”

They gazed at one another.

“I promise I won’t cut your jugular,” Hathaway said softly.

“I’m a crap therapist,” Lewis announced.

Hathaway laughed. “What?”

“Or a crap detective, I suppose. Aren’t I?” 

What does he mean? He can’t mean what I think he means. I usually cotton on to what he’s saying, but this time it’s something else. I feel drunk. Fuzzy-headed. Too much Robbie Lewis. His smells, his touch, the sight of him so close, standing next to me like he isn’t frightened at all. Like I could kiss him, and he wouldn’t step away.

My heart. _This, and my heart, and all the bees which in the clover dwell._

“I’m not in love with Laura. I don’t think I am. I don’t even remember what being in love feels like. What I had with Val, that was different. That was twenty years. More than twenty years.”

He’s rambling about love now. I could tell him about being in love. If I dared. No. He can’t mean what I was thinking. Keep calm and carry on.

“Let me finish,” Hathaway said.

Confusion crossed Lewis’s face before he understood. He tilted his chin up to expose his neck. In fraught silence, Hathaway finished the job, razing the patches of stubble that had grown since Lewis’s injury. When he was done, he dampened a flannel and wiped away flecks of foam. He inspected his work.

“You can be going on sixty and feel like you don’t know much of anything,” Lewis continued.

What is he trying to tell me? I still can’t think. Streaks of grey in his hair. I like how it looks. His age. Maybe that’s what it means — the silvery bees. Time spent together. Both of us older. His face so open now. He would never lie to me, but he’s not good at saying things sometimes. Years of listening to him, speaking his language. I can’t be wrong. He does mean it, doesn’t he? He’s asking me. Waiting.

Hathaway leaned forward and briefly pressed his lips to Lewis’s mouth. Lewis’s arms wrapped round him and kept him near. Hathaway kissed him again. And Lewis let him do it. 

My ears are burning. Everything is burning. My fingers. My mouth. My lungs. Aflame. Like my first cigarette. Hit of nicotine. The smoke unfurling, filling me. _This, and my heart, and all the fields – and all the meadows wide_.

“I should have noticed sooner.”

“I’ve been trying to hide it,” Hathaway said, inexplicably fighting for breath, hands clutching at Lewis’s sides. He rested his chin on Lewis’s solid shoulder. He was shaking.

“I know.” Lewis rubbed Hathaway’s back. “It’s high time you stopped, even if I — I don’t know how things will go. I’m not wired like you, I don’t think, but I’m not wired entirely the other way either. Ah, I don’t know. I’d rather spend my evenings with you than with anyone else, that’s all. Whatever you want to call that. And this, this is nice. Countertransference, was it?”

He grasps the important things. Love when he surprises an academic. Like me. Everything about him pleases me. His skin under my hands. The taste of him. Nose to his neck. Smell. Kiss. I was so nervous, I forgot he was only wearing pants. Press against him. He steadies me.

Suddenly, Hathaway stood up straight. “Bees, sir.”

“What?” Lewis still had his arms loosely around Hathaway’s waist.

“You asked what I thought you ought to do after you retire. I think you ought to keep bees.”

“Bees? What on earth for?”

Impossible to explain. Come up with something more logical. “Queen and country. There’s a shortage of bees in England.”

“I don’t know a bloody thing about bees,” Lewis objected.

“You would say you don’t know a thing about kissing men either, and yet you just did it.” Hathaway kissed him again, and Lewis responded, doing justice to the word ‘kiss’. 

When they finally parted, Lewis’s cheeks were pinker than they’d been before. “Bees,” he said. “Well, I suppose I can get the hang of anything with some practice.”

**Author's Note:**

> The poems quoted are:  
> The Jumblies by Edward Lear  
> #26 by Emily Dickinson  
> The Lake Isle of Innisfree by W.B. Yeats


End file.
